Vain Ways to Die
by Blame the Faceless
Summary: That awkward moment when you realize you're in an alternate universe in which one of your favorite fandoms is actually real and you just happen to be in possession of something desperately coveted by both factions involved in an ongoing intergalactic alien war. Yeah. It's gonna' be one of those days. Sideswipe/OC/Sunstreaker eventually.
1. All That Glitters

Vain Ways to Die

Chapter One

_All That Glitters_

**Summary: That awkward moment when you realize you're in an alternate universe in which one of your favorite fandoms is actually real and you just happen to be in possession of something desperately coveted by both factions involved in an ongoing intergalactic alien war. Yeah. It's gonna' be one of those days. Sideswipe/OC/Sunstreaker eventually.**

**~ \ ~ Start ~ / ~**

Music blasted shrilly in her ears, easily overheard by the other passengers on the bus sitting around her. They had been sending her annoyed looks since Colusa, which Wichita dutifully ignored with practiced ease—an inevitable facet of life for someone with her style. At least the college kid sitting in front of her had stopped turning around to hit on her every few minutes; he must have taken the hint after his fifth attempt at flirtatious conversation when she'd made a show of turning her music up louder, _Monsters _by Matchbook Romance roaring distinctly, without taking steel gray eyes from her laptop. He'd shut up faster than a crack whore getting her fix and she had to stifle a giggle, white teeth biting down on dark magenta-coated lips. Nobody had bothered her since then.

With a quiet squeal, Wichita held her warming cheeks in elation, unable to look away from a particular comment on her blog left by her favorite actor, whom she had been following religiously for several months. He had liked her latest info-post about the current position of American gaming industry, or lack thereof, in truth. She was one of the bigger names on the site, known for her witty and highly sarcastic commentary on existing issues from an informed teenager's perspective as well as her "vanity" posts—hair styles, nail designs, fashion she had all made up. However, she'd never _dreamed _that he would follow her back and start liking her posts and actually _commenting. _

Releasing a dreamy sigh, she carefully typed back a response, hoping to not come off _too _enthusiastic, even though she totally was. Whiteout-painted nails darted across the keyboard expertly, a new post quickly formulating about the status of California's public transportation systems, relating her present journey across the state and the severely lacking conditions of the gum-covered, squeaky-seated, rusty-hand-railed bus. _'…Hopefully the end of this journey will prove worthwhile. I pity the venders who'll tell me they ran out of stock.'_

Twirling a strand of amethyst-dyed hair around a pale finger, she scrolled through her dashboard, giggling here and there at the various memes and _awww_ing at the 'feels'-inducing headcanon. _I will never look at tall buildings the same way ever again. Sherlock, you have ruined me. _

One particular post regarding the _Transformers_ fandom nearly had her shuttering. _'What if when a cybertronian died, their sparks returned to the Allspark which was actually a portal to another dimension and they were reborn as humans? What if you had talked to Optimus Prime?...What if you __**WERE **__Optimus Prime? O.o'_

Surreptitiously, her gaze darted around the interior of the bus, roaming over the faces with abject curiosity. Anybody could be _anybody _(even if that made little sense); _she _could be anybody. Yet, she couldn't imagine any of the occupants on the bus to be anybody of importance—except for that balding guy with the chipped teeth and cane. He kind of reminded her of Jetfire, but she was getting way too ahead of herself. It was an electrifying thought, though, one she would have to come back to in the future.

Suddenly, Wichita was broken from that thought process by the vertigo in her stomach and the driver announcing their "successful" arrival in Sacramento. He must have been mysteriously absent during all of the hard turns, sudden stops and general suicide maneuvers he'd been performing. This trip would be the last time the public bus system would be receiving _her _service.

Hurriedly liking the _Transformers_ post, she shut her laptop and slid it back in her Barbie shoulder bag, making sure to mainly avoid her numerous tubes of vibrant lipstick and pink Deaddy Bear sweater. There were many other items within—her My Little Pony wallet, apartment keys with the fuzzy troll-doll keychain, Tinkerbell light-up pen, electronic chargers, etc. etc.—but everything was disorganized and thrown inside, so it didn't matter all that much. Slipping the strap over her shoulder, she adjusted the sleeve of her loose BONG HiTS 4 JESUS t-shirt and stepped out onto the sidewalk, chunky black platform heels clicking loudly. She had made it to the city.

Now, where on Earth was the Venders Market?

With a mild shrug, Wichita began walking forward, pulling the headphones from her ears and phone from her pocket. It was official. Google Maps was divine. Especially for impulsive nineteen-year-olds with no sense of direction.

After several minutes of walking, she was lucky enough to locate the giant field where the event was being held since it was on the edge of town, hundreds of people walking from tent to tent with bags of stuff they probably didn't need in hand. Smiling giddily, she began shopping; knowing sooner or later she would come upon the booth which she had traveled for.

By noon, Wichita was regretting bringing her entire paycheck with her. There was just so much _stuff_ that she wanted: bargain bath soaps, imported clothing (in her signature pastel gothic style), bulk makeup…It was practically a vain girl's wonderland! She'd already bought at least twelve tubes of lipstick, and two full bags of multicolored clothing.

Yet, despite the two-dozen or so items she had bought and the multitude of tents she'd already browsed, she hadn't found the specific dealer she'd come for. Maybe it was too much to hope for the cheap, but legitimate fandom merchandise they were offering; it had sounded too good to be true. It saddened her slightly; she had _really _wanted to check out the _Doctor Who_ accessories and cybertronian contact lenses—in the signature Autobot blue, Decepticon red and neutral violet. Still, the trip was not altogether worthless.

Deciding to attend one or two more booths before catching the mid-afternoon bus back to Colusa, Wichita walked to the next stand bearing the name _Solus, _gasping at the hand-crafted jewelry spread out across the velvet-covered tables. Earrings, necklaces, rings, bracelets—all inlaid with gems of all kinds, foundations of gold and silver. Her fingers subconsciously traced over the various cuts and designs, mouth gaping slightly.

"Child, are you looking for anything in particular?"

The aged, wise voice brought her out of her daze and she sent a sheepish smile towards the older, regal-looking female. She was undeniably gorgeous; tall, thin but lean with a body any girl would die for. Her features seemed to be crafted with the delicate care of an artist—the archetype of a truly beautiful woman. There was a knowing, astute look in her eyes as she appraised Wichita from head to toe, as if somehow deciding her fate or destiny.

Truthfully, it freaked Wichita out. But only a little.

Realizing she had never answered the question, Wichita replied with a shake of her head, "No, just browsing."

The woman hummed thoughtfully, an amused smile spreading across her face, "I have just the right thing for you."

Curious, Wichita watched as she went behind the tables and pulled a square satin jewelry box from beneath the tablecloth, caressing the lid nostalgically. She lifted the top, revealing a stunning necklace nestled inside its satin depths. A brilliant imperial topaz-like gem cut in an infinity-shaped charm dangled from the silver chain, seeming to glow as its own light-source.

"I-I'm sorry, I can't afford something so beautiful…" Wichita managed to stutter out brokenly. So hypnotized by the necklace, she nearly jumped when she felt the woman clasp it around her neck from behind. The stone came to rest in the valley of her breasts, warmth radiating from it strangely.

It almost felt as if it had a pulse.

The woman stepped around her once more, sending her a tender smile. She seemed…tired, sadness searing in her bright blue eyes. "Keep it. It was made for you."

Wichita was suddenly struck with roiling feelings of understanding, rage, hollow joy, and an underlying current of fatigue—but they weren't her feelings.

_She is standing in line with them, her counterparts, the ones who have been there with her and for her and by her for all of her existence. They are waiting for __**him**__, the destroyer of worlds, the bane of the universe. They will stop him—they __**must **__stop him. _

_Her weapon is a cool weight in her grasp, familiar and comforting and ready, but not nearly enough. She will fight until her last moment, she thinks. They will fight, together, until the end. _

_There is a change in the air—a coolness, a darkness, a hollowness, a deadness. __**He **__is here. __**He **__has come. _

_The end is nigh upon them. _

_She tightens her hold and then they are running and fighting and clashing and battling. They are burning and falling and __**dying, dying—**_

The vision abruptly ended and left her reeling. Her heart sped up, a galloping stallion in her chest, and she felt blood pumping through her veins with hyper awareness. Gasping, she breathed out a shaky 'thank you' before darting from the tent, risking a single glance back to see the woman still standing where she left her with that look. She didn't care that it was rude and ungrateful. She didn't care that she could possibly be making a big deal out of nothing. She had to get away, just—_away. _

Before she realized it, Wichita was back at the bus stop, breathing heavily and completely frazzled by her encounter. Her feet were killing her—lesson learned: never run in five-inch pumps. Sitting on the surprisingly well-kept bench, she caught her breath, placing her shopping bags by her feet and shoulder bag on her lap securely. It was bulging with all the new additions, but she didn't care. A chill breeze swept past her, goose bumps rising on her pale flesh. Her shoulders and legs shook with raw emotion, something she couldn't place, just a distinctive _awareness. _Her hands clenched around the cloth strap of her bag, knuckles a paler shade than normal.

Wichita barely registered getting onto the bus a half an hour later, nor the three hours it took to reach her town. In fact, she only came into consciousness the moment she stepped into her apartment, keys still dangling in her hand from unlocking the door.

Darting her eyes around frantically, she leaned against the wall for support, letting out a shuttering sigh. _What the heck just happened?_

Making way to her bedroom, extremely drained from the day's events, Wichita slipped out of her heels, setting her bag on the vanity dresser. Haphazardly wiping her lipstick off with a tissue, she stumbled to her king-size bed, falling into the luxurious seats. Tugging a large unicorn stuffed animal to her chest, she curled into a ball, asleep within minutes.

She, however, did not find the peace she had hoped for, though.

She dreamed.

_She is alone and cold, so cold. _

_She can hear no voices inside her mind and the emptiness screams her isolation. They are gone; they are __**gone. **__She knows and she can do nothing to change it. _

_But __**he **__is no more and they are victorious. Yet, this hollow victory has carved a hole in her spirit the size of twelve. The twelve who knew and the twelve who fought and the twelve who died so she can live on. _

_The twelve who are now one. _

_And the one, she, can only weep the infinite stars and wait for the twelve to be gone. _

_Because they are gone; they are __**gone.**_

_**They have taken her with them. **_

**~ \ ~ End ~ / ~**

**A/N: What is this. Why have I written this. I cannot even begin. What even. Ugh. My attempt at making a "fan falls into the movie" type of story. I wanted to try something different from the normal direction this plot takes. Uhh…Review? Maybe?**

**Sincerely, Blondie**


	2. Changes

Vain Ways to Die

Chapter Two

_Changes_

**~ \ ~ Start ~ / ~**

Eyes snapping open, Wichita lurched violently out of bed, thrown from a dream she could only vaguely recall in shadows and whispers of agony and desolation. Sweat beaded her brow and dripped coldly down her spine, summoning harsh uneasy shivers through her slim frame. The sound of a clock ticking echoed eerily in her quiet apartment, each beat crashing against a steel wall of silence in a reverberating tempo that vibrated through her body. _Strange, _she though blearily, trying to calm her racing heart, _I only have digital clocks…_

Slipping out of bed, she felt the crust of sleep in her eyes and on her face crack and stretch with each blink, grimacing at the rumpled state of her clothes from yesterday. Rolling her shoulders until she heard the satisfying sound of a _crack!, _her gaze darted to her bag and she moved to where it lay, contents somewhat spilled across the surface of her vanity. She hastily shoved everything back inside before rummaging lethargically for her phone. The screen lit up brightly in the darkness of her room, though some light had seeped in around the cracks of her curtains, and the display showed the time—_9:34. _

Wichita nearly groaned aloud; she was awake hours before noon on a _Sunday. _There had to be some written law against that. _Amendment XXVII, Clause II, Paragraph VI…Nineteen-year-old girls with erratic circadian rhythms must not wake before twelve-o-clock on resting days. Praise Jesus. God Bless America._

Sighing heavily, she trudged towards the bathroom, grumbling when she couldn't get the shower to be the right temperature for good pores. Quickly stripping, she threw her clothes in the general direction of the hamper, knowing they had probably missed by a long-shot and not particularly caring. She'd long since accepted that the gods had not put her on this Earth with blessings of sports-talent and coordination. The only 'vigorous' activity she could handle was running, but Heaven help her should anybody think to place a hurdle in front of her. Just imagining the scenario left her aching at the promise of abject pain.

Her gunmetal eyes caught sight of something shining on her chest in the mirror and she stopped breathing.

The necklace.

She'd forgotten about the necklace.

It seemed even more beautiful in the light of a new day, deceivingly perfect against a backdrop of porcelain skin. It unsettled her, to be honest, not because of its perfection but because of its warmth—as if it were sentient and _alive. _

Reaching up to remove it, she fingered the dainty silver chain for a clasp, quirking a brow when she couldn't find one. That woman had clasped it on, though…or perhaps she hadn't. Wichita had been all out of sorts during that encounter, after all. She grabbed it and went to pull it over her head, grunting as the chain seemed to shrink and get stuck beneath her nose. Letting it go, necklace fell again to the valley of her breasts, surely long enough to pull over her head. She tried again—no dice.

Beginning to panic, Wichita tugged at it and then tried to _rip _it off, but it was as if it was made from some kind of unbreakable metal. Red welts and lines immediately blossomed on her once-unblemished swan-like neck, stinging agitatedly. Frantically grabbing for a pair of scissors, she cut at the chain, but the metal-on-metal just seemed to negate any effect the tool might have had,

Giving up, she let the topaz gem rest on her chest, narrowing her gaze at its reflection in the mirror. Anger flooded her body to combat the growing fear because _normal necklaces don't just do that. _She should have never taken it from that woman—never, never, never. How foolish could she be? Wasn't that one of the first lessons she had learned? Don't take things from strangers, especially strange strangers.

Deciding she shouldn't let her thoughts go dark thinking about her stupidity and that _stupid, stupid necklace, _Wichita stepped in the shower, letting the running water wash her previous anxieties down the drain. Once finished washing and conditioning and all matter of other girly hygienic things, she wrapped a towel around her dripping form. Padding to her open closet, she hummed thoughtfully, changing her mind after a moment. Her new clothes were calling her name. She perused through the bags, surveying each piece for prime (giggle, _prime_) Sunday material. What does one wear to the market downtown?

Finally deciding, Wichita pulled on a matching set of _Transformers _lingerie. She'd ordered it for the sole fact that each cup of the push-up depicted the opposing factions and the panties were white with a blue-lace Autobots insignia on one side of the back and a violet-lace Decepticons insignia on the other. They were _perfect. _Nice lingerie always gave her a (admittedly unneeded) boost of confidence and made her feel like she could run the world: _Beyonce-style. _

After another minute of admiring her figure in the set, she slipped into a light blue off-the-shoulder top with Audrey Hepburn on the front and a pair of American flag cut-offs, accessorizing the outfit with less-bulky replicas of Wonder Woman's tiara and wrist cuffs. Wichita kept the necklace beneath her shirt, hoping the "out of sight, out of mind" philosophy would prove successful.

Maneuvering to her vanity, she sat on the stool before it, digging in her bag for one of her new tubes of lipstick. Applying a thick coating of pastel blue to accentuate her bow-shaped lips, she blew her reflection a kiss and fluffed her drying hair. No humidity outside meant it would dry in flirty curls and waves—she'd straighten one day this week for lecture. Speaking of, she _really _needed to start previewing the next chapter for Linguistics. If she didn't stay a chapter ahead, she just _knew _she'd fall behind. The subject didn't come to her as quickly or easily as she would have hoped…or at all, really…

It wasn't that she was a bad student per say. She was very opinionated about everything and not afraid to voice those opinions loudly, so it led her into all sorts of situations. Most of which were not necessarily good. Her professors rarely called on her for fear that she would make them look stupid or start an argument that would last the entire class. Her peers (most of them) took sadistic pleasure on the rare occasions she didn't win those arguments, but, honestly, she didn't care for any of their opinions—_at all._

Wichita sighed dramatically, lamenting on the woes of college life. Thank God she didn't need a job since the royalties of her blog products pair for any and all of her 'extracurricular' expenses (i.e. clothing, makeup, fandom novelties, etc. etc.). She was a trust fund kid, so her parents paid for her apartment and tuition. Work life would suit her anyway; she was too pretty. And dressed too nicely.

Fluffing her hair one last time, she grabbed bag and headed for the door, shoving her feet in a pair of gold mary-jane stilettos. After locking the door securely, she skipped down the two-flights of stairs to reach the outside world. The day was relatively warm with a cool breeze that fluttered the leaves on the trees in the medians, perfect weather for walking. It was a long way to the market, no doubt, and most would practically kill themselves making the journey in her four-inch heels, but this did in no way deter her. Back home she'd been known for her mutant feet and the forty-five minute walk wouldn't pose a problem.

With this settled, Wichita started off, strutting down the sidewalk without a care, or at least it looked like it. She plugged her headphones in and let Mathew Bellamy's throaty voice serenade her into a state of tranquil animation—Muse often did that to her, especially "Hoodoo."

So lost in his voice was she that it took her nearly a half hour to realize that she was not where she was supposed to be. Blinking out of her stupor, Wichita looked around confusedly. Her body had acted on auto-pilot and she knew the way by heart, so why had she ended up in a completely unfamiliar place? The buildings were different, the street names were different, even the atmosphere felt different.

Turning in a slow circle, she tried to figure out where she was—but none of the sights were even vaguely recognizable. The road sign read: SHOTGUN RD. An interesting name, to say the least, and certainly one she would have remembered had she ever, in fact, seen it before. And was it just her, or were there suddenly loads of people walking up and down the sidewalk? They had not been there before, she was sure.

Something—or some_one _rather—rammed into her shoulder and she stumbled to the side, harshly connecting with the brick wall of a building. Releasing a yelp on impact, Wichita sent a glare towards her assailant, rubbing her injured, probably bruised, shoulder. He was lucky her bag had been on the other side or someone would have died and it _wouldn't _have been her. The man, she realized with abhorrence, barely paused to give her a second look, running ahead of her with—_Is that a GUN?_

Mouth gaping slightly, Wichita finally grasped the current situation: people were _running away _and _screaming._ She quickly pulled out her headphones and stashed her mp3-player in her bag, climbing atop one of the _abandoned (that's why there were so many illegally parked on the side of the road)_ cars to see what was happening.

She wished she hadn't.

Her heart froze, lungs refusing to contract, knees knocking together pathetically.

_That's Optimus Prime._

She scrubbed at her eyes and arched her neck forward as if that might help change the scene playing out before her _because it was obviously an illusion. _Optimus Prime was not actually engaged in combat with Megatron. Samuel Witwicky was not actually cowering to the side with the Allspark. The city was not actually burning and crumbling to pieces.

She was not actually seeing this.

Except _she was. _

_Oh God, she was._

Wichita screamed, just opened her mouth and let out the most blood-curdling, horrifying scream that the human vocal range could produce. It rang out in the streets, but nobody paid her any mind because _everybody _was screaming.

She wanted to deny the facts presented to her. She wanted to deny that she was no longer in Colusa, California. She wanted to deny that she was in a fictional city. She wanted to deny a great deal of things.

But she wasn't that type of person.

She had _literally _walked into the first _Transformers _movie.

Her mind blanked. Black spots danced around the edges of her vision and a high-pitched ringing resonated in her ears. She felt like she was dying. Maybe she was dying. Maybe she was insane. Maybe she—needed to breath. Breathe. _Breathe. _

Wichita carefully slid off the hood of the car, taking too long and unable to do anything about it. Her limbs were shaking and the feeling in her gut resembled the uneasiness one feels after almost getting into an accident or almost getting caught doing something forbidden. She wondered if this was how Dorothy felt in Oz, even if that book was actually about an American election in the early twentieth century.

People ran frantically past her, knocking her every which way, and she struggled to get out of the rushing crowd. Once free, she tried to calm her breathing, mind racing to just—just _understand. Why is this happening to me? _

Yesterday she had been a semi-famous blogger twitching with excitement because her top stalk-material actor had personally messaged her.

Today she was a paranoid schizophrenic.

Or maybe she wasn't crazy, and this was actually real and if it was, holy heck, she was in so deep she couldn't see the bottom or the surface and she felt like she was drowning—breathe, _breathe._

There was a searing pain on her chest and all she could feel was _heat, heat, heat. Why is it so hot? Burning, burning, make it __**stop!**_

Tears gathered in her eyes, falling down her cheeks as she sobbed in agony. Her fingers clawed at her torso desperately, pulling her shirt down to see the necklace, _that stupid, __**stupid **__necklace_ glowing red and gold. She smelled the acrid stench of burning flesh and dry heaved, tasting bile in her throat, as she realized _that is my flesh. _

Her vision flickered and she briefly felt herself falling to the ground before she knew nothing.

**.**

**.**

**~ \ ~ End ~ / ~**

**A/N: Please tell me what you think! I reply to all reviews. c: **

**Sincerely, Blondie**


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